


The Truth in Belonging

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Ownership, Pack Dynamics, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles...okay, Stiles knows he's not exactly straight.  Has known it since he was fourteen and something about the way Jensen Ackles moved his arms made his breath catch and his stomach drop.  But he admits he doesn't thing about it much, not when his mind is filled with Lydia Martin, and her strawberry hair, and the way her lips plump just so when she's making someone cry.  It's just not relevant in the face of something like that.</p><p>Until it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles...okay, Stiles knows he's not exactly straight. Has known it since he was fourteen and something about the way Jensen Ackles moved his arms made his breath catch and his stomach drop. But he admits he doesn't think about it much, not when his mind is filled with Lydia Martin, and her strawberry hair, and the way her lips plump just so when she's making someone cry. It's just not relevant in the face of something like that.

 

Until it is.

 

And Derek – _Alpha_ Derek, throws him against the wall and pins him with his body. Presses long and lean against him as his claws bite into his wrists and bring blood welling to the surface.

 

'He did  _what_ ?'

 

Stiles stutters; out of fear, out of the fact his body is reacting without his permission and without his prior knowledge. Oh god, how had he not  _known_ ?

 

'He...he offered me the bite. I said no! End of story.'

 

'He  _offered_ the bite. And then he just  _let you go_ ?' He can't...Stiles knows he can't possibly be missing the way he's hardening against Derek's hip, but apparently he's so close to ripping Stiles' throat out, he doesn't care.

 

'Yeah, okay? I don't...I don't see what the big deal is. How about..hey!...backing off? Before you tear my hands off?' He can feel sharp pain where Derek is clawing into his skin, but it's not doing its job of killing his arousal. He wants to press forward, into that pain and into Derek's body; wants to lift on his toes to grind into the hard muscle of Derek's hip.

 

Derek knocks him harder into the wall, uses his grip on Stiles to jolt him further with each word. 'No one turns you but me. No one.'

 

' _Or...'_ Stiles offers insolently, the only way he can, 'no on turns me. I like that option.' Because yeah, sometimes he's jealous of Scott's speed, and agility, and sure, he's thought about it, but he  _likes_ being human, even if it leaves him mainly dorky and left out and the weak one of the bunch.

 

Derek acts like he hasn't even spoken, and his breath blows hot across Stiles' ear as he leans in, his lips almost touching the shell, voice hard and unrelenting and imperious. ' _No one_ _but me_ . You're mine...my pack. Don't think I'll let you stray.'

 

Stiles' eyes have closed from the sound of Derek's voice, from the feel of his mouth phantoming across his skin, but he can't...he can't let Derek think he owns him. He's not a werewolf, he's  _not_ Derek's pack, no matter the totally inappropriate images the words make flicker across the back of his eyelids.

 

'Not yours,' he mutters, even as he turns his head to the side and unconsciously bares his throat. 'Not yours.'

 

There's wet warmth across his wrists and his eyes fly open to see Derek dragging his tongue across the puncture wounds, sweeping up the trickles of blood, over and over again, his eyes bright red in the dim light of Stiles' room, floor cluttered and computer on. Everything normal, messy,  _ordinary_ ; everything a stupid, crazy testament to how  _un_ ordinary his life has become.

 

He can't help it: the lick of his tongue across his bottom lip, the whimpering breath and the brief twist of his face into the pleasure shooting through his body. Derek doesn't even pause, just laves his wrist clean before switching to the other one, sucking the wounds dry with a thoroughness that has Stiles squirming and looking at anywhere but the person in front of him.

 

Derek scrapes his teeth (human, for once) one more time over the puncture marks before drawing his thumb down Stiles' exposed neck.

 

'You _are_ mine. Smell like us, taste like us; don't think you can decide to walk away now.' He ruts up hard against Stiles, just once, just long enough for Stiles to understand that thrust against his belly, and then he's away, straddling the edge of the window before he makes his escape.

 

'Don't try to leave. I'll find you.' He vanishes into the dark, leaving Stiles to collapse to the floor, a mess of sweat and nerves and knotted arousal.

 

He crawls to his bed and climbs in, wrapping the sheets around him with his last bit of energy. He should close the window, lock it, but really, what's the point anymore? Instead, he falls asleep, and dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, by rights, this should probably be about the same length as the first part, but, instead, it's like six times the length. And I'm not sorry.

What happens that night is not Stiles' fault. He will argue this point until the day he dies, because, regardless of what Derek thinks, he isn't trying to run, escape, leave, or any of the other half dozen words the Alpha growls out in the dark, eyes glowing redder than Stiles has ever seen them.

 

He's _not_.

 

He just thinks that, you know, with his body and his brain and friends all doing things and having lives without ever checking in with him to say 'Hey, Stiles, is this cool with you?' he deserves a break to catch his breath. That he freaking  _requires_ a time out to try to find some ground in all the life changing events that have happened since he starts eleventh grade. Which is why, three days after graduation, he asks his dad for the key to the cabin they keep up in the mountains of Washington state. It's probably a little grungy – they haven't been up in years, not since Stiles' mom dies – but it's isolated and quiet and far, far away from everyone and everything he knows.

 

And sure, he doesn't tell Scott he's going; Scott would just try to worm his way into coming, and probably bringing Alison, and that would defeat the whole point. But it's not because he's trying to slink off, or to hide what he's doing. It  _isn't_ . He just wants to be alone, which is why no one is informed of him backing out of his driving way too early the next morning, before neighbors or even God is awake; taking off before anyone can call him for a favor or a request or just to bark at him for not showing up at some appointed place and time.

 

Of course, this is also probably why he's woken up in the middle of the first night, being dragged from his bed by his hair, out of the bedroom and down the long dark hall. No lights are on, but the moon is full enough that everywhere windows are, a silvery glow comes through.

 

He struggles, but doesn't panic, because somehow – and he doesn't examine the  _how_ until much later – he knows the hand belongs to Derek, and he's proved right once he's flung into the moth eaten couch in the living room and looks up to see Derek looming over him, wolfed out as much as he can be and still keep to mostly human features. He's down to cut off sweats, just like Stiles, and a part of Stiles wants to giggle and sing out  _matchy matchy._ He refrains.

 

'I told you –' Derek's words are a little hard to understand, because of elongated teeth and his descent into growling, but Stiles is fairly proficient in werewolf these days '– I warned you not to try to leave.'

 

It takes a minute for Stiles to even figure out what he's talking about, that night over a year ago when Derek proceeded to pull the rest of the rug from under his feet – his words. For days afterward, Stiles had watched Derek from the corner of his eyes, remembering the press of his body against his, that almost impossible second with his erection grinding into him. But nothing changes, and Derek doesn't even seem to acknowledge the conversation; Stiles still doesn't know what it was, about Peter's offer, that had offended him so much.

 

In the end he's forced to conclude that whatever has happened was an anomaly, or something he's imagined in his adrenaline and lust soaked mind. All he's left with is a body that knows exactly when Derek enters a room, and a hard on that he spends too many nights coaxing to climax, with images of Derek fucking into him.

 

He stares coldly at Derek. He's not the same kid he was at sixteen. The thing about daily contact with the supernatural, with the idea that you might could die at any time – you eventually get a little numb to it all, a little blasé. Because, really, what's the point of maintaining that level of fear?

 

'And I told  _you_ you don't own me. Not one of your pack, asshole. Not a werewolf.'

 

Derek is in his face without seeming to move at all, gripping his hair and yanking his head back to bare his throat. 'We could fix that. No more problem.'

 

Stiles twists and manages to get his foot in a position to kick the hell out of Derek's stomach. The breath rushes out his mouth, but he just tightens his hold on Stiles, growls rumbling low.

 

'And I'll tell you exactly what I told your psycho uncle. No. The answer is  _no_ .'

 

'Don't—' Derek's fangs are starkly prominent in the moonlight. 'Don't talk about him.'

 

A different kind of danger fills the air, something not death and blood, but that triggers Stiles' fear levels in a way Derek's threats no longer do. He ignores it, shoves it down in lieu of trying to prove he's not Derek's chew toy.

 

'Peter,' he spits out. 'Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter. You want to hear it again?  _Peter_ .' The world spins, and he finds himself pinned flat on the couch, Derek's legs holding him immobile as he breathes harshly in his face, lips drawn back in a snarl. And still Stiles doesn't stop. 'That bother you? Huh? That he wanted  _me_ in his pack? That he thought I was  _valuable_ ?' He has to keep talking, because if he doesn't, if he takes time to think, he'll have to concentrate on the feel of Derek against him, on the fact his sweats don't keep the heat of his body away, and that Stiles was already hard from the hand in his hair, the breath on his neck, even before Derek covers him.

 

'Just think; if I'd said yes, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. It's kind of a lovely thought.'

 

Derek is snapping his jaws at Stiles' face, at his neck and ears, butting his head into his cheeks and throat, and Stiles thinks maybe this is it. Maybe he's finally pushed the Alpha too far and he really will rip his head off. But the real fear stays strangely absent still, unable to replace this other, nebulous one. Derek draws back so that Stiles can see him, his mouth stretching wide as he roars,

 

' _Shut_ _ up.' _

 

Stiles opens his mouth again, not even knowing what he plans to say, when Derek shifts a little, just enough that his thigh rubs across Stiles' groin, and an unexpected moan flies out of Stiles' mouth. Derek freezes, closes his eyes and breathes deep. His whole body relaxes, loose and easy, and a smug smile draws his lips up.

 

His eyes, when they open, are still red, but everything else has morphed back down into full human. He's just Derek again, a Derek who wedges a hand between their bodies and cups Stiles' crotch, a nasty little laugh escaping.

 

'You want me to fuck you.'

 

'In your dreams.' Stiles manages not to grind into the pressure of Derek's fingers.

 

Derek moves his hand and Stiles doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but he's not given too much time to wonder, because Derek dips his face down, right next to Stiles'. His voice goes even lower, and he puts his lips against Stiles' ear, voice honey slow and whiskey rough as he spins a web of words.

 

'You can't lie to me. You think I don't know what you do at night? Think I don't smell it on you? Think I've never watched you, fucking your hand and saying my name? Shoving your fingers inside? You babble then, too – did you know that?' Derek's voice is uneven and his nostrils are flaring with every inhale; Stiles knows he's scenting, but he can't move or protest because his body's working hard to wrest control from his mind.

 

'You talk, and you talk, and you tell me every little thing you imagine me doing to you.' Stiles is caught up in the image of Derek, outside his window, seeing his boxers shoved out of the way, or completely gone, his body twisting and arching, eyes squeezed shut. He wants to be embarrassed, he really, really does, but all he really wonders is if Derek likes it, if it makes him hard. His mouth, though, is still in fighting form.

 

'You...watch? You freaking creeper. You know that's not normal right? How would you like it if I was watching you?'

 

'I'd like it. Same way you like the fact I watch you. The same way you'd like it if I told you I sometimes jack off while I do it. I do, you know. Lick my hand and pretend it's your mouth, that it's doing something better than trying to challenge me, imagine I'm doing all those things you're telling me.'

 

A groan drags itself from Stiles' throat at the picture Derek's painting, his hips stuttering up against the thigh pinning him down. Derek smirks, victorious and self satisfied.

 

'You can say I don't own you all you want, but your body knows it's a lie.'

 

'Fuck. You.' Stiles manages to spit out, shoving hard at Derek, even knowing it's futile trying to move him. Derek just responds by grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head.

 

'I've been patient, waiting for you to grow up, waiting for you to accept your place, but you ran, Stiles. You  _ran_ . I told you. Told you not to.' Derek's teeth are at his jugular again, and he can feel the sharp point pricking into him.

 

'Peter knew. I  _told_ him.' Derek is slowly wolfing out again, sideburns lengthening and scrubbing against Stiles' jaw, claws popping out and into his wrists, an eerie echo of that earlier night. 'He tried to  _steal_ you. If I had known, I would have killed him for that alone.'

 

This is so wrong, somewhere in Stiles' mind he knows this, knows there's something sick and twisted about him getting so turned on at the idea of Derek killing for him. But it doesn't stop him from arching up again, licking his lip, doesn't stop his neck from stretching long and wide to make a place for Derek's mouth.

 

'It's okay.' Derek has apparently added mind reading to his list of skills, as he scrapes his canines across the soft places underneath Stiles' chin. 'It's okay to like that. You should. You should like knowing there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you. But Stiles, you shouldn't have tried to run.'

 

'I wasn't –' Stiles protest is weak, because it  _feels_ like a lie now. Even if he wasn't running for good, he was trying to escape, trying to leave Derek behind. And he shouldn't...shouldn't try to do that.

 

'No, you shouldn't.' Derek's words make him realize he's speaking out loud, confession bubbling from his mouth. 'I should turn you, make it so you can't leave. Make it so it would hurt you like it hurts me.'

 

Stiles manages to get the  _no_ out, just barely, but he doesn't know if he can hold out, not like he did with Peter, not like this. He settles for a half-hearted shake of his head, a whimper that morphs to a groan when Derek shifts so that he's not so much pinning Stiles as settling between his legs. He can feel Derek's erection pressing into him through the thin fabric of his sweats, wants the sweats out of the way so he can feel him skin to skin.

 

'I won't.' There's something different in Derek's tone, and he pulls away from Stiles' neck. When Stiles makes a muttering sound of protest and opens his eyes, he sees that Derek's eyes have gone back to green. 'You would hate it. I won't give you the bite if I can help it. But I can't wait for you anymore.' And just like that, his eyes flash back to red, and then Stiles can't see them at all, because Derek's mouth is on his and he's  _devouring_ him, all tongue and teeth and lips. Stiles can't breathe, doesn't want to breathe, his body is arching and greedy and he's the one to take it past kissing, to push his hands between their bodies to shove at the waist of Derek's sweats.

 

Derek growls agreeably and joins him in his efforts, jerking Stiles' pants down until they're both kicking legs, in a fumble of bodies, to get rid of pesky clothes. When they're nude, skin against skin, Derek rakes a hand down Stiles' chest, not careful enough to keep from leaving fine scratches in his wake, tiny pinpricks of blood welling up sporadically. Just like before, it doesn't do anything...anything to dim the pleasure running through Stiles' brain, and this time he  _does_ arch into it, bowing up so that Derek doesn't have far to go to slide his tongue across the wounds.

 

'Say yes, Stiles,' he orders between movements, between sucking at broken skin and cleaning red away. 'Say you understand what this means.'

 

'That...that you'll let me drive your car?' Stiles snarks weakly between gasps. 'That we can watch  _Titanic_ on movie night?'

 

' _Stiles_ ....' Derek draws out warningly, hitching Stiles' leg over his hip so that their dicks rub side by side.

 

But Stiles can't...he can't say that. He can barely think it in his head. 'We can march in the Pride parade together? And make the rest of the pack do it too?' he tries again, even though that one's not really funny and also seems like admitting he is, indeed, a member of the pack.

 

Derek bites into his neck, his teeth flat and careful not to break skin. ' _Say it_ .'

 

Stiles isn't so careful, knowing his nails are leaving marks on Derek's hips as he tries to pull him down harder. 'I'm not...I'm not saying it, Derek. I can't.'

 

Derek instantly pulls away completely, all the way to the other side of the couch, raking his hands through his hair, his face angry and raw. 'Why must you be so stubborn? You  _know_ it. You've known it for years.'

 

Stiles thinks this isn't fair, thinks Derek doesn't  _get_ it. How could he, when his whole world is nothing but dominance? 'How...how would you like it if I jumped you, pinned you down and demanded you admit  _I own you_ ? Huh?'

 

Derek blinks at him. 'I would say it. Is that what this is about? You want me to say it first? Okay. Stiles, you own me. Happy now?' He looks at Stiles like it's the most obvious thing in the world and Stiles wants to shake his fist in frustration.

 

'How can you say that and  _still_ look like an insufferable jackass Alpha?'

 

Derek crawls back over him, rubs his body up and down Stiles, nipping red marks on his abdomen and chest. 'It's because you confuse being owned with weakness. It's not the same thing.'

 

'It's...not?'

 

'No, idiot. Wolves are always stronger in pairs. So are we.' He fishes around on the floor and retrieves his sweats, and for a horrifying minute Stiles thinks he's getting dressed. But he only dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a packet that Stiles recognizes as lube from his room.

 

'Oh my god, you really have been watching me.'

 

Derek's eyebrow quirks. 'I told you I was.'

 

'And all that other....stuff...'

 

Derek slides down until his shoulders are pressing Stiles' thighs apart. 'And all that other stuff.'

 

 _Oh_ , is what Stiles means to say, but it comes out as 'Oh _hhHmmmAhhhhungh_ ,' because Derek chooses that moment to press a slicked up finger against Stiles. His head falls back; it feels a million times better than his own hands, and he grunts out a demanding 'More.'

 

'Stiles.' Derek works another finger in but then stills, hand gripping his thigh tight. 'Look at me.'

 

It's a chore to raise his head, a chore to open his eyes, but so, so worth it to see Derek looking up at him, blown pupils red ringed, splaying Stiles' body wide and exposed. He's got one hand partially buried inside him, and Stiles can see the effort it takes him to hold back, to wait for whatever he's waiting for.

 

Whatever it is...whatever it is, Stiles will give it to him, because his body is strung tight, and looking at Derek, looking at  _him_ , is making every part of him want to rut recklessly to climax.

 

'Stiles,' Derek says again, voice raw. 'Tell me. Tell me you understand.'

 

'I do. I do.  _I do_ .' He fucks down into Derek's fingers. ' _Please_ .' And he knows Derek's telling the truth about all that watching, because he knows exactly what Stiles likes, exactly how to play his body. He knows exactly what Stiles wants him to do to him. He's slippery with sweat and spit by the time Derek is braced over him, dick poised right at the precipice of breaching him.

 

Derek's arms are trembling, and his lip is bleeding from where he's bitten it to keep himself from shifting. He noses Stiles' jaw and then bumps their foreheads together. There's a weird vulnerability to his face when he speaks again, even though his voice is as imperious as ever.

 

'Tell me.'

 

Stiles' rushing sigh contains every doubt and insecurity and fear he's ever had, and he lets it go, just like that, just that easy, because it's inevitable, and there's no point. Not when giving in feels a lot more like winning, not when it feels a lot like peace, despite the jacked up state of his body, and the painful hardness of his dick, leaking and begging for release.

 

His head rolls sluggishly as he focuses on Derek and reaches up to lick the blood from his mouth. 'You own me, Derek. I'm not going anywhere. Promise.'

 

Triumph carves itself stark across Derek's face, bright and so fucking attractive that Stiles arches like a bow, and Derek pushes all the way in, all at once. It  _hurts_ , but also feels so insanely good, as if Stiles has been waiting, just for this, for the whole of his life. He comes without Derek moving, without being touched, and there's cum on his torso and cum on Derek's, and he watches in fascination when Derek drags a finger through it and sucks it into his mouth.

 

'Always wanted to know,' he says be way of half-explanation, and then he  _moves_ . Violent, hard, he ruts into Stiles like he's been waiting to fuck Stiles just as long as Stiles has been waiting to be fucked. And maybe he has, maybe he's been waiting longer. Stiles doesn't know, can barely find enough strength that hasn't been leached away by his own orgasm to keep a grip on Derek's neck, to wrap his legs around his waist to meet his thrusts.

 

It's quick – how could it not be? - and then Derek's hips are stuttering as his body stiffens, curling down into Stiles, and he roars, actually  _roars_ , loud enough that if they were in town, there was no way an Argent wouldn't come running.

 

They lay there for a time before Derek carefully pulls out and starts touching all the places on Stiles' body he's left marks, like they're trophies, or ribbons that he's collecting for a scrapbook. Stiles would do the same, except Derek's body is already healing any bruises and bites, and really, how is that fair?

 

'What now?' he finally asks. There are things...he knows there are things that will have to change. His dad will have to be told –  _not_ a conversation he's looking forward to – as will the pack. He wonders what this means for living conditions, because if Derek thinks he's moving into that wreck he calls a house, he has another thing coming. He doesn't know what it all means, what all the implications are for this decision, and in a way it's scary, scary like the first day at school, the first time walking onto the Lacrosse field, the first time he'd masturbated to thoughts of Derek. He doesn't concentrate on that though, instead presses his hands into Derek's spine and focuses on his breath.

 

'Home,' Derek says, with a definiteness in his voice that's beyond his usual strident tone. 'I'm taking you home.'

 

'Yeah,' Stiles admits, curling into the space Derek makes for him under his arm, 'I wanna go home.'

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Truth in Belonging by GoddessofBirth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/437478) by [takola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takola/pseuds/takola)




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